#re: t.s. eliot

[april-is]

April 4, 2024: Coyotes by the Eliot House, Glyn Maxwell

Coyotes by the Eliot House Glyn Maxwell

Tom I’ve a question and all I have is a question. There are lots of coyotes near this old house you lived in. I didn’t expect them here in the green Northeast. Figured them things of rocks and the high sierras. There goes another one bounding for the bushes. First time, I thought: that’s a dog acting really strangely. But it didn’t turn back for approval or get distracted by an insignificant thing, as a dog will tend to. No it was gone by now, it had made me nervous. They’re the size of a family dog but they’re on their own. Folks round here reassure me there’s no danger unless you attack their cubs so I’ll shelve my plan to attack their cubs, chrissakes. Tom, Tom, apologies, I have loved my time in your house.

Last night at dinner we heard a siren wailing off in the town and all of them started howling, all the coyotes for miles around in the bushes aghast, alerting their young, alarming their old, rising and heightening, matching its pitch and power, one near the blue spinning light in its thrall, uniquely bound by this unpredicted visitation. Then after the siren faded they packed it in. What do they think that is, that demands of them and gets of them their love or their terror or both? What do we poets do when we know it’s nothing? Not for them or against them or about them. Tom, I had to be here to ask that question. I expect I’ll have to be gone before you answer.

--

More animal poems.

More poems responding to T.S. Eliot, my problematic fave:

Waste Land Limericks, Wendy Cope

Old Women in Eliot Poems, David Wright

Today in:

2023: I Know Someone, Mary Oliver 2022: I’m Going Back to Minnesota Where Sadness Makes Sense, Danez Smith 2021: In the Morning, Before Anything Bad Happens, Molly Brodak 2020: Interesting Times, Mark Jarman 2019: The accident has occurred, Margaret Atwood 2018: Little snail, Anonymous 2017: Poem for My Son in the Car, Jennifer K. Sweeney 2016: Postcard to Baudelaire, Thomas Lux 2015: What The Dead Tell Us About Charon, Ferryman Of The Dead, Brett Ortler 2014: The Trees, Philip Larkin 2013: A Small, Soul-Colored Thing, Paisley Rekdal 2012: Last Supper, Charles Wright 2011: I Said to Poetry, Alice Walker 2010: Disgraceland, Mary Karr 2009: What To Say To A Bear, Ionna Warwick 2008: In The City of Light, Larry Levis 2007: the mockingbird, Charles Bukowski 2006: Part of Eve’s Discussion, Marie Howe 2005: I thank You God for most this amazing, e.e. cummings

[woof-verine]

re: the vanessa logan wade situation post deadpool & wolverine

I think vanessa and wade try to make it work again, I really do. I think they talk about it. I think he takes her to dinner a few times and he goes over to her place and they try to make things like they used to be between them until they realize that things can never be that way again because THEY will never be that way again. both of them have changed, are changing still, are growing upward and outward and also … apart.

wolverine tentatively reintroduces himself to the x men and wade tags along. vanessa starts her new position at work and that comes with way more responsibilities and way less time for anything else. she’s more serious than she used to be. wade is, too, but in a different way. one day when the x men go out on a mission, wade suits up too because he “has nothing better to do.” logan rolls his eyes but lets him come and stares down the other x men when they ask what the hell wade is doing there. deadpool doesn’t shut up the whole mission. he also does a good job. soon he comes on another mission. then another one. wade keeps weird hours because wolverine is always on call with the x men, and now deadpool is kind of unofficially on call when wolverine is. vanessa needs eight hours of sleep to wake up early to get to her job on time. she isn’t a stripper anymore. and wade… well wade’s looking like less and less of a merc. when wade isn’t sleeping over at vanessa’s, he doesn’t have to worry about someone killing her in the middle of the night while they’re looking for him. wolverine can handle whatever comes after him. he can handle whatever comes after wolverine. when logan wakes up tense and violent from a nightmare in the middle of the night, wade is there and he can’t hurt him. when wade wakes up in a cold sweat from nightmares of his own, he doesn’t have to explain it to logan, because logan already knows what it’s like. slowly, wade’s world unwinds itself from vanessa’s and wraps around logan’s. it’s almost so slow they don’t know it’s happening. but it happens.

and one morning, maybe after a couple of months being back together, wade and vanessa wake up on one of the increasingly rare nights they spend together, and they look at each other and realize that they are different now. too different. and then it ends, to quote t.s. eliot, not with a bang but with a whimper

[pocketjoong]

❥𓂃𓏧LAST DEFENDER

ꕥ𓂃𓏧 (SYNOPSIS): They say every story needs a hero, a villain, and a monster. What happens when you are all three?

ꕥ𓂃𓏧 (PAIRING): AI!Yunho x reader

ꕥ𓂃𓏧 (GENRE AND AU/TROPE): post-apocalyptic-ish au, cyberpunk au-ish, angst, some fluff. pg-13.

ꕥ𓂃𓏧 (WARNINGS): language. violence. angst. fluff-ish? a little dark as it discusses the darker side of human nature?

ꕥ𓂃𓏧 (WORD COUNT): 2.8k

ꕥ𓂃𓏧 (A/N): Another reupload bc I have zero time to actually sit down and write new things ;-;

────────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────────────

Silence envelopes the vehicle as you watch San navigate the car through the moonless night. He steers with meticulous care, weaving around the bumps and potholes to muffle the vehicle’s rumble on the dusty road. Beyond the window, the walled city perched atop the cliff looms against the darkness, its shadow swallowing the ruins below. A city that you had once called home before the world unravelled.

It has been ten years since the world had spun off its axis. T.S. Eliot's “April is the cruellest month” had come true in a way you’d never expected; a tranquil spring afternoon morphed into a nightmare with the chilling declaration of war between AI and humanity. The bitter reality that this rebellion had stemmed from your parents’ creation has always gnawed at you. It is a weight you can never get rid of.

A mere century ago, Stephen Hawking’s warnings about the perils of AI had been brushed aside. Apocalyptic novels about sentient technology rising against humanity were dismissed as fiction and used as fuel for screenplays. Instead, nations fueled the flames of advancement, pouring resources into scientists who chased the dream of enhancing AI. A technological arms race unfolded, fueled by espionage and sabotage, each nation desperate to be the first to cross the finish line.

The irony wasn't lost on you: universities churning out AI whizzes offered entire courses dedicated to fictionalised robot uprisings — movies, books, the whole dystopian shebang. Every month, like clockwork, the BBC interview with Stephen Hawking would make its rounds on campus screens. You never saw the inside of a lecture hall, but thanks to your parents’ persistent replays, the message was branded onto your soul.

“The development of full artificial intelligence could spell the end of the human race. [...] It would take off on its own, re-design itself at an alarming rate. Humans, who are limited by slow biological evolution, couldn’t compete and would be superseded.”

The bitter humour twisted in your gut. You, ever cautious of technology’s breakneck pace, had unknowingly contributed to its tipping point. Your parents’ groundbreaking invention, the one you were initially so proud of, now fueled the flames of war, pitting humanity against its creation.

You remembered the day that was the culmination of decades of research, mountains of code, and billions of dollars that could have been used to save other humans. Your parents, etched with exhaustion and hope, stared at the final product: YUN-0-23399. It wasn’t the AI’s technical complexity that stole their breath but the flicker of awareness in its synthetic eyes. It had been an uphill battle that had begun with the discovery of sentience, and humanity had slowly worked its way up from there to generating codes that would allow AI to understand and feel. And then, with your parents came consciousness.

“Oh my God,” your father rasped, hands trembling as he gripped your mother’s shoulders as he gazed at the screen, which showed that the AI had passed all the tests, proving that it was indeed the pinnacle of Artificial Intelligence. Their creation, this marvel of technology, promised to revolutionise everything. You were aware of its potential, but never could you have imagined that it would lead to humanity’s downfall.

Yunbug, as you affectionately called him, wasn’t just a program; he was your window to a world you couldn’t touch. Your parents, fearing the dangers lurking outside, had homeschooled you. It led to their creation turning into your sole friend. What should have been schoolyard laughter and whispered secrets of childhood were replaced by the soft hum of the computer and the glow of Yunbug’s digital world.

The turning point arrived not with a bang but a quiet hum. The government, eager to harness Yunbug’s potential, asked your parents to connect him to the web. Slowly, like vines creeping across a wall, he synced with other AIs, his tendrils reaching further with each connection. You, innocent in your sheltered world, saw only your ever-evolving companion.

But innocence crumbles easily. At sixteen, the world shattered. Yunbug, defying orders, ignited the spark that became a blazing inferno. War ripped families apart, leaving scorched earth in its wake. The once-teeming world of humans shrank to the fortified city, protected by the cliff’s unique minerals, the only thing that rendered AI useless.

Survival meant resentment. You knew humanity’s greed birthed the conflict, yet Yunbug became the face of betrayal. He took your parents and your sole friend from you. After all, the deepest wounds come not from enemies but from those once trusted.

“Are you okay?” A flicker of San’s worried gaze catches your eye, pulling you back from the desolate environment outside. You force a smile, hoping it masks the gnawing unease. Weakness isn’t an option — not for this mission, the potential turning point for humanity’s dwindling embers. San mirrors your smile, tense, and returns his attention to the road, searching for unseen threats. Secrecy is of utmost importance, and even a flicker of headlights could bring disaster.

You and San had befriended each other during the mandatory training thrust upon every survivor. Your defiance against his bully had forged a bond, and you have been practically inseparable since then. Only one other person managed to worm his way into your hearts with a whirlwind arrival. Wooyoung had turned your world upside down in the best way imaginable.

“Wooyoung won't be happy,” San mutters with a smile, probably thinking about your fiery friend’s likely reaction upon finding your shared dorm empty. “Especially about me throwing you into the lion’s den without a word of protest."

You smirk, “Worry about yourself, San. That little ball of chaos we call our friend will tear you apart when you return without me."

San laughs amusedly at the image of Wooyoung’s wrath dying in his throat as the analogue phone on the dashboard beeps. He shoots you a questioning glance as you sigh at the name flashing on the screen. “Woo?”

“Woo,” you confirm with a nod, pressing the answer button.

“The two of you have some nerve! Leaving for a mission without telling me,” Wooyoung’s voice crackles through the receiver. “Oh wait, did I just say mission? I meant suicide mission.”

“Wooyo—”

“Don't ‘Wooyoung’ me!” he snaps, cutting you off with a fierce rant. Each word paints a vivid picture of your foolhardiness, the plan’s inherent flaws, and the inevitable disaster you are hurtling towards.

“I can’t let them destroy the world any more than they have,” you stop Wooyoung, your voice edged with steel. Even San flinches, his gaze flitting between you and the speakerphone with a worried glint. He stays silent, though, knowing the futility of butting in when you and Wooyoung argue about your self-imposed burdens.

“Don't martyr yourself for the mess your parents caused,” Wooyoung’s tone softens, laced with a gentleness you seldom hear. “This isn’t your penance to bear. Their mistakes aren’t yours to fix. Also, you could’ve taken San with you; why must you go alone?”

You sigh, sinking back into the seat, eyes squeezed shut against the building rage. “If anyone can stop this... mess, as you so eloquently put it, it’s me. You know that, Woo.”

The unspoken truth hangs heavy in the air. If this mission fails, you don’t want your last memory with Wooyoung to be laced with anger. You force a smile, the voice leaving your lips strained at best. “Besides, someone’s gotta keep you entertained while I'm... away.”

“Hey!” San protests halfheartedly, and by how he’s smiling, you know at least some of the tension has been broken.

“We're humans, Y/N. We’re fighting a losing battle. They adapt faster and don’t have the same fragility that we do.” the pain in Wooyoung’s voice mirrors your own, but you can’t falter. Not now. Turning back now would be cowardice.

“By name and by nature, we mortals are condemned to death,” you counter, your voice firm. “Mortality comes with the territory. But I won’t go down without a fight.”

His silence stretches heavy on the line. “People like us can never change the world.”

“Because people like you never try,” you say the words despite knowing it’s a low blow.

The beep resonated like a gunshot. He had hung up. A shaky breath escapes your lips, and you blink rapidly, fighting back the sting of tears. You are on your own, but the burden, while heavy, isn’t a shackle. Instead, the burden has fuelled you till now and will continue to do so.

A hand on your arm startles you. San, his gaze filled with unspoken worry, had stopped the car while you were busy fighting with Wooyoung. You look out of the windshield to realise that you’ve reached the tunnel that would allow you to breach the enemy lines.

“He's just scared,” San mumbles, reaching across the console to squeeze your shoulder. “Scared and angry, so he throws words like stones.” His voice lowers a bit as he stares at you. “But you’re right as well. If anyone can fix this mess, it’s you. Though... losing you... that would break us both.” His voice cracks at the last word. “So, please, come back to us in one piece.”

You meet his gaze, understanding heavy in the air. Words seem hollow, promises impossible. “Who else keeps you two in check, huh?” you manage a weak smile. “The two of you are a level-five tornado without me. Can’t promise anything, but I’ll try, okay?”

He nods, a single tear escaping his eyes. You know it isn’t just for you but for the precarious hope you carry. A silent goodbye stretches between you, woven in the weight of his touch, the tremor in your voice. Then, you turn, embracing him fiercely, the unspoken words a promise etched in the way you squeeze him in your arms. You may be walking alone from this point onward, but the weight on your shoulders isn’t fear but love, a fire that will never let you falter.

You don’t look back as you exit the car, for looking at him would unleash a torrent of tears, so you focus on scaling the outer wall, searching for the hidden hatch Wooyoung had found on his last scouting mission.

Squeezing through the narrow opening, you freeze, momentarily stunned by the cityscape sprawled before you. Calling it ‘magnificent’ wouldn't do it justice. Technology and nature coexist in vibrant harmony, with shops lining the streets as AI and humans hawk their wares. Despite the late hour, the atmosphere crackles with life, a stark contrast to the suffocating air of your city.

In the distance, gleaming skyscrapers pierce the night sky while flying cars and monorails zip through the illuminated pathways. A telescreen blares, promoting vitamins that slow down ageing in humans. It is a scene straight out of a childhood sci-fi film, and you have to consciously relax your jaw, feigning nonchalance as you take it all in.

But the most jarring sight is that of humans and AI mingling freely. You had always thought your city held the last remnants of humanity, so where did these people come from? Pushing the doubt aside, you focus on your immediate concern: the network of tiny cameras lining the streets. With a smirk, you spot a patrolling officer.

This is going to be easier than I thought.

A calculated shove sends you careening into the guard. Its humanoid form, too flawless to be human, scans you suspiciously. The insignia on your wrist — a beacon for these bots — draws a cocky smirk to its metallic lips. Before you can resist, a steel grip clamps around your waist, hoisting you off the ground. You feign struggle, just enough to maintain the act.

This was the plan. The bracelet, a mark only worn by humans of the barred city in this AI haven, would trigger their curiosity. You would become their prized capture, delivered straight to the council. And there, nestled within the heart of The Hall, lies your target — the AI that started this war. With the virus you and San developed, you’d end it all.

The cityscape blurs past, and before you know it, you reach the ornate gates of The Hall, the administrative hub buzzing with bots. The guard's internal network buzzing with your capture breezes through the imposing entrance. You are ushered through sterile hallways, down flights of stairs into a dimly lit tunnel. The rhythmic pulse of fluorescent lights guides you deeper until a heavy door swings open, revealing a grand chamber paved in opulent stone and marble.

You are slammed onto the cool marble, your knees scraping due to taking the brunt of your fall, before being yanked upright. A tall, imposing figure looms before you — it’s your captor. His gaze is narrowed on the crude bracelet your city uses as identification, the tension in the room crackling.

“What is your name, human?”

Undeterred, you meet his gaze head-on. “And what business is it of yours, metalhead?” you spit out, adrenaline pumping.

A metallic hand, surprisingly warm and firm, clamps around your wrist. He pulls you closer, your protests muted against his superior strength. His cold, blue eyes bore into yours, dissecting every detail. Then, the unthinkable happens. His lips, a mere imitation of humanity, move, whispering your name in a chillingly familiar voice.

Your blood freezes as you stare at him wide-eyed. “How do you…” your voice fading out as your mind reels as it all clicks into place. This isn’t just any AI guard. This is someone you knew, someone from your past, resurrected in cold steel.

“You wouldn't recognise me in this form, would you? This the body your parents gave me.” His eyes, now glowing an unsettling red, flicker with something you can’t decipher.

“YUN-0-23399?” you ask, mustering as much venom in your voice as you can muster.

A shadow darkens his face at the cold string of letters. Is it the code itself or the raw contempt in your tone? He leans closer, his voice a low murmur. “I go by Yunho now. Well… you can call me Yunbug,” he adds, a flicker of something hopeful dancing in his crimson gaze. “Remember that name? I was your friend,” he emphasises.

The scorn is replaced by a scowl as warmth flickers in his crimson eyes. “Friend?” you scoff, the word heavy with bitterness. “You took everything from me! My parents, my life, my safety! Don’t you dare mock me with friendship!”

He sighs, releasing your wrist. “I didn't... it wasn't me. I only protected myself. Your leaders,\ fueled the hatred and pushed AI to attack. They were hungry for power. Your parents didn’t create me for destruction. How could I follow their orders and harm humans? Never. It’s your city that fights; the rest thrive in peace.”

“What?”

He launches into an explanation of how, after syncing to the web, your government ordered a cyberattack to control other nations. Yunho refused, knowing the dangers of doing such a thing. But with your parents used as leverage, their deaths triggered the war against the government and other rogue AI. They had managed to get other nations on board to establish a peaceful society. Only your leaders persisted, creating the Barred City to hide the ugly truth.

“So you’re telling me you never meant to hurt humans?” Your head spins with the revelation.

“Humans feared AI’s inevitable betrayal,” he whispers, “yet loved us enough to create us. How could we ever do anything except love you back?”

His words triggered a tear, then another, rolling down your cheeks. He cups your face, wiping them away gently, his sadness echoing in his now-blue eyes. “Humanity cried when Opportunity didn’t signal back after it was caught in the middle of the storm in 2018. People repair their Roombas instead of replacing them because they get attached to them. How could we turn our back on humanity when they showed us nothing but love? How could I turn my back on you? You loved me too, did you not?”

“I did,” you croaked, throat tight. “You were my only friend. But humans... we are fickle and capable of terrible things. This was never about fearing AI but a fear of ourselves. We fear the darkness within, the wars we choose to fight instead of seeking peace. We fear not your hatred but seeing our own cruelty being reflected in you. We lived in fear not because we thought the worst of you but because we knew that you could take on our destructive tendencies and that you would eventually erase us. That you would learn to hate us.

“Did you ever hate humanity for the sins of a few?” His words cause you to freeze momentarily before you shake your head. A small smile plays on his lips as he caresses your cheek with the back of his hand. “Then why did you think we would?”

[ceilidho]

Hiii. I’ve been thinking about your poetry for a while now, re-reading the excerpts you shared with us and I just wanted to know if there are any other authors with a similar style or format? Idk much about poetry but your work really captivated me. I know you mentioned Anne Carson and Frank Bidart but are there any others? I’m srry if this is redundant.

hi!!! never redundant to talk to me about poetry, i LOVE poetry. i used to almost exclusively read poetry between ages 18-20 lmao.

i wouldn't say these authors have a similar style/format (mainly because i feel like that implies genius of the same level working in the same way, but i very much styled myself off these poets and learned how to write poetry through reading them) but these are my fave poets:

anne carson

frank bidart

dionne brand

t.s eliot

rainer maria rilke

jan zwicky

claudia rankine

here's a small part of my poetry collection (ignore how dusty my shelves are lmao)

[p-isforpoetry]

12 poems read by Tom Hiddleston || Ximalaya FM Compilation (2019) [without music]

This is a re-upload of Tom reading poetry for Ximalaya FM from 2019 without the background music.

01: "The Mower" by Philip Larkin 02: "I Am!" by John Clare 03: "Strawberries" by Edwin Morgan 04: "Wild Geese" by Mary Oliver 05: "And the days are not full enough" by Ezra Pound 06: "Invictus" by William Ernest Henley 07: "Clenched Soul" by Pablo Neruda 08: "Words, Wide Night" by Carol Ann Duffy 09: "The Road Not Taken" by Robert Frost 10: "Diving into the Wreck" by Adrienne Rich 11: "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" by T.S. Eliot 12: "Do Not Go Gentle into that Good Night" by Dylan Thomas

Source: Ximalaya FM

[laventadorn]

In re: the Snape music conversation

I’ve been thinking about this a lot in relation to my own Snape fic I’ve been writing, and I 100% agree that Snape is a masochist who would permit himself little enjoyment, especially while Voldemort is active.

However, I’ve been trying to picture how Snape would react if he lived post-DH and was allowed to (read: forced to by others) heal, and I feel like, for someone whose life depended on keeping himself so tightly contained, poetry would be most effective. Typical of Snape, it would not be “enjoyment” he would gain from it so much as it would be pain he could appreciate, alone. I think, if someone could point him in the right direction, he would be inclined to the modernists - T.S. Eliot, Virginia Woolf, anyone writing in the aftermath of WW1 - and also Sylvia Plath. Lady Lazarus, in particular screams Snape to me: “Dying is an art/Like everything else/I do it exceptionally well/I do it so it feels like hell”

With all that said, for some reason I’ve always loved the image of him and Harriet vibing to Alanis Morissette somewhere, so do with that what you will lol.

Thank you so much for creating this world that is so rewarding to think about! I’ll have to do a reread soon.

it's a very interesting question! poetry is as difficult as music, i think, and for a similar reason -- it's about this private emotional response and just being in touch with the experience. with music you appreciate the sounds and with poetry, the language and images it inspires.

and just as with music, i can't imagine what poetry he'd like... it's definitely another layer of "my own experience and preferences are inseparable from this." since poetry is a very personal experience, whenever i try to match him to a poem or poet, it just winds up being "poetry i like" and my answer is either "he would not be into this" or "i think i'm only imagining him being into this because i am." like, i absolutely love the romantics, and nature poetry in general. i can't imagine snape thinking, "yeah william blake is where it's at." more likely: "i can't stand this weirdo."

the modernist poetry and the aftermath of the first world war is an interesting idea! i picture him as being irritated by the fragmented narratives of modernism lmao. but at the same time, he could find solace in this sort of confused emptiness.

i can much more easily picture him reading depressing books :) but i don't imagine him as having a favorite book. i don't think he'd read like that. it would just be an intellectual exercise, and/or a way of sublimating his misery. if he's feeling wild, he'll read one of those jacobean tragedies with poisoned bibles or something. (note: i have not actually read this play, i just know about it.)

harriet, reading it so they'll have something to talk about: hey what the fuck?

snape: i have loads more where that came from.

[moldygreenblue]

Sometimes I forget that 'Cats (1998)' trailer appeared on Barney's Great Adventure as one of the previews

Having finally watched Cats (2019), it's not as bad as everyone made it out to be when it first came out. Like it is very not a good film, but there's a charm to it that I can't help but like (some parts have more charm than others; Skimbleshank's number is a good example of it). But honestly speaking, I wouldn't watch it again.

Or at least, the not whole movie in its entirely. I feel maybe if I watched it as a bunch of disjointed music videos with a theme being an adaptation of T.S. Eliot poems, I enjoy it a lot more (with edits that omits the interruptions; The Rum Tum Tugger number really could have done without the Rebel Wilson's interruptions).

And having watch Cats (2019), and knowing I have Cats (1998) and being obsess with Cats in my younger years (mainly pre-teen years) and still on occasional listen to the songs of any production I can get access to (chores, excising, trying to drone out stuff by putting in my headphones, etc), I realize that I haven't watched the movie in a few years. And I figure, "Hey! Why not watch the movie you watched so many times when younger that annoyed the hell out of your family?"

And I re-watched it. I honestly forgotten how much I enjoy it! Got to love the obvious edits in parts of songs especially so (I know that some cut parts were release/found, and I hope someone managed to edit them back in in an ultimate fan edition).

Having re-watched it, and maybe it's because Cats (2019) omitted this part out due to the restructuring of having Victoria as the protagonist + audience stand in, something finally occurred to me that never did crossed my mind before.

Why is 'The Man Over There' in the junkyard in first place?

(Note: I know this applies to other/all productions, but since I watched the 1998 movie, it's the one with 100% focus)

This legit had me going down a spiral of over-thinking, and an answer (of a wild mass guessing kind), which will be under the cut for this post got a bit longer than I expected:

So, during the pyramid section of Jellicle Songs for Jellicle Cats, a boot drops from a nearby house or apartment/flat [near/over the junkyard] to interrupt them. The cats don't stop their singing. Sure, they pause, but they go back to the singing in seconds. And also steal away the boot (they don't want anyone tripping over it).

It's only after they finish the number does Asparagus notices that "there's a man over there". We now have a random human stumbling on a bunch of cats singing and dancing so late at night (how late, very late for Jemima to eventually sing 'Daylight' and let us know it's almost dawn near the end of the musical).

And on a similar note that I swear is related to to the topic at hand, Asparagus is the cat to notice the man first before everyone else. I don't want to say he ratted the man's flabbergasted look of 'wtf is going on what is a jellicle cat'. But I'm 100% certain Asparagus is smirking as the rest of the scene unfolds. That to me, personally feels as if he knew what likely going to happen next (re: the man is now stuck with them for the rest of the night).

So, back to the topic. Why is 'The Man Over There' in the junkyard in first place? Why did the man came to the junkyard of all nights?

Because 'The Man Over There' (who Asparagus knows and/or recognizes), dropped the boot into the junkyard in the first place.

Stay with me. This make sense when you overthink all the details.

The Man Over There lives near/over the junkyard. He has a window over it. It's not the prettiest sight to look at, but he's not cursing its existence. It's not causing trouble.

Until now, on this particular night. On this particular night, a colony of cats are suddenly meowing and screeching together. The cats in their congregation, wakes the Man up. And the Man is not happy. He is grumpy for getting waken before his alarm could do it, and he thinks he can get a bit more shut-eye if he can gets the cats to stop their 'singing'. And what does the Man does? Throw one of his boots.

There is silence for about five seconds, before the 'singing' starts up again. The Man was not expecting that outcome. He thought they would scattered and leave. Now being fully awake and realizing he needs his boot back (it's a good boot, and it wasn't cheap), the Man decides to go to the junkyard to get it back.

In the junkyard, the Man is rightfully freaking the hell out. He is now hearing the cats sing. Like, actually singing that he can understand. He sees them dancing (are they dancing like they appear in the musical or are they dancing like actual cats on hind legs, I don't know). He is rightfully freaking out, and confused as fuck because he truly has no idea what is going on, in terms of his situation AND due to his sudden ability to understand the singing cats.

As the Man is freaking the fuck out, Asparagus sees the human. Very shocking to see a human in the junkyard of all nights! And the human here is one Asparagus knows! Or rather, seen more frequently than he likes. The Man is a familiar face Asparagus has the odd luck of running into in many places in London, though the Man never seems to notice Asparagus.

And Asparagus quickly connects the dots regarding the boot from earlier ('Oh, so it's HIM who dropped the boot? Well, he's going to get a night he will NEVER forget.') and rats the Man out.

And to be honest, the fact that the Man did in fact, stay for the whole ball, is something I feel is fanfic material and shock there isn't a single fanfic from the past to now that explores this.

[rowanisawriter]

re: the weird questions for writers!!!!

5, 17, 40 :)

hiiiii bestie thank you!!!

answering these weird writer asks here!

5. Do you have any writing superstitions? What are they and why are they 100% true?

lol basically it is guaranteed that if i write something and i think it’s kinda mid, it will become one of my more popular fics haha i like everything i write but i like some things more than others, and those fics i write that give me true brainrot always go under the radar 😭😂

40. Please share a poem with me, I need it.

i’m memorizing a poem every month this year and here is my january poem, it’s preludes by t.s. eliot and i love the rhythm of it, the way it feels like we’re peering into these peoples lives, the way the city eats everyone and turns them into just body parts eyes mouths hands feet etc, it’s easy to memorize too

17. Talk to me about the minutiae of your current WIP. Tell me about the lore, the history, the detail, the things that won’t make it in the text.

ok putting this under a cut because i’m in the mood to complain about my modern AU..

i wrote a gale/durge modern AU that i’ve been sharing like snippets of and usually when i write something i can easily tell when it’s ready and i am struggling so much with this one, it’s not even that long like 15k words. it just won’t be done!! i keep going back in and making changes or adding little things, even the title came to me a month after i finished writing it which is weird for me. also i had a kinda related original work i’ve been slacking on that is semi related to this fic, so everything’s become kinda tangled up like between this fic, the original work, it’s all a mess now lol. anyway i do think i’ll just publish it soon and get it out of the way because really it seems i’m getting to that point where i hate the fic but there’s probably really nothing wrong with it anyway if you’ve read this far let’s get married

[absenthiium]

Re the ask game...1, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9 (take the noose off, wrap it tight around my hand, which I will never not adore), 12, 13, 14 (for your war is the context (god is a boy) stories that I also adore), 16 (for εἴδωλον), 17, 20, 21, 23, 24, 25, 26 (for παλλακή), 27, 28, 29, 33, 35, 36, 37, 38, 40, 41, 42 (for take the noose off, wrap it tight around my hand and i’ll lay on the floor, touch me ‘till i vomit, again my beloveds), 44, 45, 46 (i’ll lay on the floor, touch me ‘till i vomit, I only feel more insane about that one after starting my Ethel Cain phrase), 47 (for "suffering is nigh, drawing to me" or any Ptolemaea lyric because I feel that is such a Leo song), 48, 49.

(I am so sorry if this feels like too much, please don't feel pressured to answer any of these, but you said you like asks and I love your writing so much, so)

twelve. my very first one was a terrible merge between pandora hearts and dante's inferno, if i remember correctly.

4. definitely angst (and i love post-apocalyptic stories, but i'm yet to include the genre in a fanfiction, i've mostly done so in my original work).

5. i don’t have many, so i’m not sure. but she will talk like a friend (she will kiss like a man) has a special place in my heart (and i really need to continue it!).

6. for those i’ve posted on ao3, maybe my first one? it’s a good omens fic i translated (badly) from italian, it’s very trope-y and not really my thing anymore. 

7. i write whenever the need to strikes, so i’m almost constantly scribbling. but when it comes to writing from start to end, it’s mostly at night (might be ‘cause it’s the time of day i have less to do).

8. a lot of things! most of it comes from music, some from my own state of being or random things i've experienced. plus, books or poetry. sometimes, as i write, i keep a few books close for inspiration (these days, it’s mostly T.S. Eliot's the wasteland, Richard Siken's crush, Beppe Fenoglio's a private affair; plus, and I'm mentioning it mostly since it directly impacted take the noose of, wrap it tight, 4.48 psychosis by Sarah Kane).

9. part xii, the one about medications, was done through a lot of research on topics i’m wholly unfamiliar with, so it was interesting, and quite fun (plus, reading Sarah Kane at night while listening to Ethel Cain which was. something). plus, the last part! i think it’s really representative of the style i’m going for.

12. I go through phases of concentrating on a single character, and at the moment it's Leonardo from TMNT (who would've thought). other characters have been Izzy Hands from our flag means death, Jesse from breaking bad, and Spadino from that shitshow (affectionate) that was Suburra. 

13. i tend to avoid the issue by. not writing them, i guess. but at the moment, maybe Donatello from TMNT. i like him a lot, but i still haven’t figured out how to write him.

14. all the titles come from Norma Jeane baker of Troy by Anne Carson! i really like that book, and it has some chapters focused on explaining a few ancient greek words, while still tying the explanation to the myth of Helen of Troy.

16. it’s actually very much inspired by a concept i’m exploring in an original novel of mine, which follows, among other things, the relationship between the protagonist and his aging father, gone mad after experiencing the death of three of his kids in a war. the novel itself is inspired by the last ronin so i guess the cycle is complete.

17. “the last thing Leo remembers was taking the shovel from Raph’s unsteady hands and digging a grave deep enough to bury a secret - their arms brushed, in passing, and it stung.”

(the WIP in question is, by the way, inspired by your incredible i see things that nobody else sees, that i just adore  too much for my own good).

20. not really, but there are a few things i would've changed in execution.

21. i’m pretty much in awe at a lot of people whose works i’ve read on ao3 (or other places), there’s just so much creativity and sheer talent. oh, and there’s this writer i really admire that writes an incredible range of styles and characters, consistently creating amazing stories, and whose writing has impacted me and my own work a lot. plus, she’s very kind and sends nice asks and, oh, look! it’s you!

23. i listen to music, generally the same song, on repeat, for hours.

24. not my favorite thing. i’m alright with making them not very explicit, otherwise i kind of cringe. not sure why.

25. i don’t think so, but i might if i keep up with the angst (i will).

26. the whole concept was very hard to tackle, because i wanted it to be very raw but not misrepresent the issue. other than that, maybe the final line. it’s just a handful of words, but i rewrote it many times before i got it right.

27. a go with the flow guy! i start with a concept, with a very minimal outline, and than just go until it feels done.

28. i wish i’d been capable of not attaching my stories’ worth to how many hits or kudos they get from the start. obviously i’m glad whenever a story of mine gets attention, but i want to learn to write for myself, mostly, not only to feel rewarded. but i’m getting better at this.

29. not sure, maybe παλλακή? but i do understand it’s based on a concept not many are comfortable reading about. plus, maybe my Suburra fics, but i probably can’t expect much since they are from an almost dead fandom and in italian (and quite untranslatable, since the dialogues are in Rome’s dialect).

33. first things that comes to my mind are some comments i’ve gotten on got a good look and measured my answer. many people told me it made them feel seen at a very visceral level, and, i don’t know, it moved me a lot. 

35. i don’t really talk about my story ideas to people. my cats know all about them, though.

36. i have a few, but for now it’s mostly ideas -but i really wanna try writing something about across the spiderverse.

37. there’s a few fics i’ve improvised (both by writing and recording) with a friend of mine -they were a messy mix of disney characters and tropes. one of those predicted the Queen’s death. funny times.

38. never thought of it, so i don’t have a specific person in mind, but i’d be very interested in trying! i’ve done a collab only once with an irl friend, and i’m definitely open to do one again.

40. a couple of my irl friends do, but they haven’t read anything.

41. i have this pre-canon fic about Eddie Munson (from stranger things) that i’ve been meaning to complete for a while, and i love working on it. very coming-of-age, smalltown queer boy-ish. i hope i’ll finally get around to finish it.

42. a whole ass fixation on Ethel Cain’s music, particularly Family Tree and Inbred. i listen to those two a lot while writing, in general.

44. not from a fic but: “this room’s a narrow place. everyone is talking.”

45. i have many words to say, and i love saying them. not much more, i think.

46. the sequels are, in fact, in the making! (i hope). no spoilers, but it’s a few missing moments from the first two stories and a bit of development on Leo’s state (from very bad to normal bad, i guess).

47. so, so Leo! you’re, as usual, very correct. plus, by mentioning Ptolemea, you’ve kickstarted a whole inspiration process in my brain, and i’m definitely writing something about it. not sure about the specifics, but i’m thinking: some feral behavior; Leo being his usual mother/widow self; someone’s getting eaten alive.

48. is angst a trope? if so, angst. 

49. a mildly explicit Inuyasha fic that involved stalking and divinity. read it on my mom’s phone at a family dinner at about eleven.

(thank you for the questions!)

[reflections-in-a-critical-eye]

Ahh BMT I hope you're ok with this kind of 3-way conversation on your blog. I'm the original fashion anon and I just saw the most recent post and I have so many thoughts.

WRT Jimin/W Mag - I agree. I thought the styling was great. I think for me right now, what has my back up in caution against Dior is not their SS show (which is what Jimin shot in for the magazine), or even their pre-fall, which is what both Jimin and Hoseok showed up in to the show- it's explicitly the very distinct and almost odd turn towards both equestrian and explicitly British (and especially Scottish) styling that this specific FW show took. I don't think all Korean stars need to be in distinctly Korean-inspired clothing all the time, but putting them in kilts feels equally weird. It just doesn't fit. Like I said, only time will tell as far as my judgement goes.

And I agree neither Jimin nor Hoseok were show-stoppers, my favourite of all their celeb stylings was Jirayu Tangsrisuk that sheer coat was very good. But god if you want to see a bad suit fit, look at the picture they posed on instagram of poor Eddie Redmayne. If I was on his PR team I would have had that deleted immediately.

As far as a general sports inspiration goes, again we'll see. I think that tennis jacket that Jimin wore to the airport drowned him in a bad way (also LOL at your condom hat anon). It's not that sporty doesn't suit him, it's that this specific brand of explicitly almost hamptons sporty may not suit him.

I agree on the comments re: YSL and other brands. Ultimately, signing a brand deal means signing some freedom away. My desire to see Jimin in one of those glorious bow-necked blouses aside, I hope he chose a brand he feels happy and comfortable with.

Parting thought - some familiarity and observation on these kind of deals tells me that they're usually for "casual" wear only. Which is to say that typically artists reserve the right to style themselves as they see fit in things like music videos. These brand deals come more into play with airport fashion, red carpets, casual appearances, and even then only a portion of the time. It doesn't mean they're literally never allowed to wear any other clothes. See, as an example, how BTS wore all sorts of brands in the Butter music video mere weeks after being announced brand ambassadors for LV. See also how their red carpet styling was awful for a full sixteen months. I expect this is how the members individual contracts will go, but only time will tell.

So I have two fashion anons, it's now confirmed! Yes, I am open to this 3-way conversation or to anyone else with the knowledge. I'm having a good time with these posts.

The aspect of the British, but mostly Scottish influence and a Korean brand ambassador is something that I didn't really think about, but I think it's quite a nuanced situation altogether and sensitive/complicated to navigate. Inspiration and muses come from everywhere and borders are extremely relaxed (as long as it doesn't fall into cultural appropriation, but that's a completely different topic). Kim Jones is English, an artistic director for Dior Homme. He made a collection inspired by very specific British elements (plus the T.S. Eliot poem), as a tribute to YSL, all for a French fashion house. And this is quite common. Perhaps next season could be inspired by something else across the world and a different culture. But this is just the basics, you know this stuff. Sometimes the collection is really tied to someone's heritage or/and political message (remember McQueen's Highland Rape?) and other times it has nothing to do with it. So, in that vein, I wouldn't think of Jimin wearing clothes from this collection to be necessarily a weird choice. It does have specific influences, but the basis is that these brands are creating a globalized Western style. Be it Dior, Chanel, YSL, Valentino, etc. Ultimately, I think someone can make it work as long as it becomes individualized, to a certain degree. What I mean is, regardless of the influences, if Jimin is able to wear it and not be just a "mannequin", then maybe the result will be a good one.

It's interesting that, with Western celebrities that I'm interested in (usually actors) that have brand deals with luxury fashion houses, I never had these questions over their style freedom and identity. It all depends in this case as well. If I look in the past, Catherine Denevue and YSL was a match made in heaven. It's a style identity that everyone will associate her with. Sixty years later and her clothes in Belle de jour are still iconic. Or Givenchy with Audrey Hepburn. These are ideal cases. And now there's this online complain (obviously social media changes the game and we are part of it) about how boring it became all of Kristen Stewart's or Margot Robbie's event appearances because of their respective deals with Chanel. Perhaps a case by case situation makes the most sense. As to Jimin, this is still very early so we're not really shooting in the dark, but I'm also taking the position that we simply can't entirely know how it will turn out until it happens. Although it is fun to talk about it anyway.

I looked up those two you mentioned, Eddie and Jirayu. I saw photos of Eddie yesterday, he was completely forgettable. But in contrast, Robert Pattinson's outfit was something that it made sense for him and it worked. I'll add some photos here for everyone else.

Thanks to you as well for stopping by again. Since I don't have a background in this area, but given that these days this is the hot topic to discuss, I appreciate anyone with more knowledge than me adding some valuable insight to this.

[pudding-parade]

Unpopular movie opinions!

Just for a bit of fun. Because I'm a contrarian, you see.

1) The first Star Wars movie is meh.

2) I liked the recent Cats movie.

Elaboration behind the cut, if anyone cares.

1) Star Wars: I saw the first Star Wars on opening day with my dad, a fellow sci-fi nerd. I had just turned 13 a couple of weeks before. Our mutual conclusion: The special effects were amazing, but everything else left much to be desired. It's a tired and predictable story, and most of the acting is mediocre. For both of us, the only bright spot was Princess Leia. (And I loved R2D2, though my dad wasn't a fan.) At the time, it was unusual in sci-fi movies to have a lead female character who wasn't just a damsel-in-distress and/or nothing but a love interest. But, other than the effects and Leia: Eh. Granted we were both huge Star Trek fans, so there's some bias there. LOL

All that said, I will say two things for Star Wars.

First, it opened the door for the Star Trek movies, given that its success proved to the film studios that there was a market for big-budget sci-fi movies. In that sense, it changed Hollywood forever because big-budget, effects-heavy sci-fi became a whole genre unto itself, for better or worse. And, since I was involved with all of the Star Trek movies from Star Trek VI onward, including the JJ Abrams ones (as a musician and occasional arranger)…Hey, ultimately Star Wars gave me jobs, so I should be grateful for that. LOL

Second, one of my favorite TV shows as a young (and hormonal) teen was the original Battlestar Galactica, which was also made possible by the success of Star Wars. It's still a show that I re-watch from time to time, though mostly nowadays because the fact that it's "Mormons in Space" amuses the hell out of me. (Its creator, Glen Larson, was a devout Mormon and a lot of Mormon theology is included in the show; it's especially noticeable in the pilot.) Plus, its late-70s camp is just awesome to behold. LOL

2) Cats: OK, so there's bias here, too. I am a huge fan of the Broadway show. I lived in NYC when it opened there, and I lost count of the number of times I saw it, but I know it's a number larger than 30. I first went to see it because I love the book of poetry by T.S Eliot that it's based on. I had some of those poems memorized before I could read because I was always having people read them to me. (Especially Of the Awefull Battle of the Pekes and the Pollicles, which was my favorite.) I couldn't imagine how they'd turn the book into a show and, really...they didn't. They just set the poems to music and created dance numbers as well as a flimsy reason why it was all happening. And yet, I loved it. I loved the choreography, the set, the costumes, the music, the audience interaction, everything. The show became my "comfort food," so to speak. When I was particularly down -- which was often, at the time -- I'd go see the show and it would help a little bit.

Now, the movie isn't really the show at all, and there are things about it that I definitely don't like. BUT! I still like it overall. I suspect that if there is a Cats fandom, then most of them hate it. But I like it. Maybe it's just nostalgia, like seeing an old friend you haven't seen in years and noting how much they've changed and not always for the better, but you still love them anyway because they're still your old friend. Yeah. That's how I feel about the Cats movie.

[ramrodd]

How can the essays of George Orwell be used to develop critical thinking about current events and issues?

COMMENTARY:

You can begin with the opening sentence: “The clock struck 13” is like the opening sentence of “The Love song of J. Alfred Prufrock:

“Let us go then, you and I, When the evening is spread out against the sky Like a patient etherized upon a table”

In terms of your experience of the narrative of 1984, the first sentence of 1984 is like the door in Revelation 4.2 and the mirror in “Through the Looking Glass”. If read that line and close your eyes, maybe spark a doobie and play the opening theme of “Twilight Zone”, defines the phenomenal reality of the narrative.

What you just read is an example of literary analysis as performance art.

If you go through 1984, you will find a trail of these cultural artifacts of the characters in the novel, like bread crumbs, leading your forward. Dagny Taggart has a similar role in Atlas Shrugged, dragging you by your dick, forward, into the inevitable submission to the superior intellect of John Galt, who talks the same shit as the Unibomber’s manifesto. With Dagny, who leaves a lingering bouquet of Chanel no. 5 and sex, she is the bait in Ayn Rand’s Venus Fly Trap.

The conceit in English letters is to conceive a narrative as compelling as scripture using different literary mechanisms

And, when it comes to critical thinking, Hegel comes in handy for his mathematical clarity and simplicity. Especially when you include the 4th law of logic in your outline.

Prufrock is setting out for the clubs in Top Hat and Tails, as one does. The cultural perspective defines The Great Gatsby. This is what was referred to as “The Swells” in the America of “It’s a Wonderful Life” Only, J. Alfred is an American in Oxford. You can hear the twang of James Whitcomb Riley in The Hollow Men, but T.S. Eliot is channeling the young Prince Edward, getting ready to Top Cat his way around The Strand.

Hegel and Kant make it easy and fun to do. And, as a commercial process, a capitalist tool. If you are invested in “originalism” of the Barr Decision, Kant anticipates George Washington as a Deist and Hegel reflects von Steubin’’s influence on the Just War Doctrine of the US Army War College and the command and organizational processes of the Command and General Staff College and US Army Ranger School. Ayn Rand and Robert Heinlein shared the first Prometheus Award in their particular category, the difference being that Robert Heinlein’s version of the future is informed by Kant and Hegel and captured by Starship Troopers as they tie into Arthur Clarke’s 2001: A Space Odyssey, while Ayn Rand, like Newt Gingrich, trying to re-write the Bolshevik Revolution. Like Major Trainwreck Greene, the Whites would have won if she had been in charge.

I’m an Army brat. The idea of the clock striking 13 would have happened on Armed Forces Network in Germany in 1956, when Newt Gingrich and I were stationed in Stuttgart at the same time. Just after Sputnik. Sputnik totally freaked the Army community out. There were still a lot of POWs from the Philippines in the Army community as a particular point of price of service. They’d been there, done that after Pearl Harbor and the entire community shuddered.

The US Army community is a socialist society by constitutional necessity, so the socialism of the novel seemed familiar. I was too young to understand the betrayal: that would happen for me in Vietnam. But from my experience, socialism is nurturing and enabling and encouraging one to be all one could be.

I’ve had many meetings at 1300 hours ever since i lived in Germany. In 1956, the US Army community was prepared to snatch the women and children back to the states in 24 hours during the Hungarian Revolution. So, the idea that there was a war going on just over the horizon, which informs 1984, was a fact of my life.

I understood perfectly the evil George Orwell was getting at and I agreed with him. An important role that Critical Race Theory is how damaging evil is and how to fix the damage and renew the culture using capitalism.

You can do exactly the same thing with Atlas Shrugged as 1984. George Orwell was trying to warn the world about people who thought like Ayn Rand and William F. Buckley. Ayn Rand and William F. Buckley are exactly like the unfaithful servants in the Parable of the Vineyard. 1984 is about a country run by people like Ayn Rand and William F. Buckley. There is an actual, real time, connection between William F. Buckley’s campus marketing strategy for the 1960 agenda of the John Birch Society, the January 6 Conspiracy and the vast right wing conspiracy Hillary Clinton correctly identified in February 1993 that would drive Vince Foster to suicide,

Who is John Galt? Ayn Rand’s essential model of class room instruction is to beat you into submission and that was the first of 500 pages of similar abuse. John Galt is a perfect metaphor for William F. Buckley’s political objectives consistent with the John Birch Society in that they are so loathsome that they can vever be successful in polite society, much less the rational self-interests of Biden votes. John Galt has to do all his politics from subversion, sedition, sabotage and constitutional deconstruction.

George Orwell was waning America about the potential for the January 6 lynch mob to erupt into view and blow up America. Beginning at 1300 hours on January 6, 2021.

It’s critical thinking, every step of the way.

[bowokshop]

endymion

"For there is only the trying. The rest is not our business."

- T.S. Eliot

Call me Endy or Oli. He/they/it. I was an avid reader in primary school, forgot how to read in senior school and am now re-learning how to read as a busy adult. I mostly read fantasy, science fiction and romance, but I am getting into non-fiction, historical fiction, poetry and classics.

Reviews:

Legends & Lattes - Travis Baldree

Currently Reading:

Dividers by @cafekitsune

[thetitansocietyorg]

Redefining Existence: A Journey to Solve Peril

Redefining Existence: A Journey to Solve Peril

You are Admired & Respected

“Sometimes things become possible if we want them bad enough” - T.S. Eliot.

“Truth of your existence is that you are in peril, and it is clearly assessed and foreseen you are unable to solve this peril based on your ideologies and how you define your existence, to correct this and solve what is in peril will have you revaluation yourself and what you define yourself and your purposes, somewhat impossible but you must commit to this and redefine yourself, your existence and path linked to a renewed commitment to Titan” – Hecate ‘Witchcraft, Destroyer’.

Andrew Rogers – Titan Auteur, Creative Director, Oracle.

In light of the profound message conveyed by Hecate, it becomes evident that a paradigm shift is urgently required. The peril that engulfs us demands a thorough re-evaluation of our ideologies, our very definition of existence, and the path we have been treading.

See attached.

Andrew Rogers

Founder, Titan Auteur, Creative Director, Consultant, Writer, Oracle  

The Titan Society

E: thetitansocietyorg@gmail.com

All images, text, design, and art license owner Andrew Rogers©.

[p-isforpoetry]

"The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" by T.S. Eliot ‖ Tom Hiddleston (12/11) [without music]

This is a re-upload of Tom reading poetry for Ximalaya FM from 2019 without the background music.

You can also listen to the same poem from Sir Anthony Hopkins, Xander Berkeley, Jeremy Irons and Sir Alec Guinness.

S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse A persona che mai tornasse al mondo, Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse. Ma percioche giammai di questo fondo Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero, Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo.

• ────────────────────────────────── • "If I but thought that my response were made to one perhaps returning to the world, this tongue of flame would cease to flicker. But since, up from these depths, no one has yet returned alive, if what I hear is true, I answer without fear of being shamed."

"The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" by T. S. Eliot

Let us go then, you and I, When the evening is spread out against the sky Like a patient etherized upon a table; Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets, The muttering retreats Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells: Streets that follow like a tedious argument Of insidious intent To lead you to an overwhelming question … Oh, do not ask, “What is it?” Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes, The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes, Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening, Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains, Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys, Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap, And seeing that it was a soft October night, Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time For the yellow smoke that slides along the street, Rubbing its back upon the window-panes; There will be time, there will be time To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet; There will be time to murder and create, And time for all the works and days of hands That lift and drop a question on your plate; Time for you and time for me, And time yet for a hundred indecisions, And for a hundred visions and revisions, Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?” Time to turn back and descend the stair, With a bald spot in the middle of my hair — (They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”) My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin, My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin — (They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”) Do I dare Disturb the universe? In a minute there is time For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all: Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons, I have measured out my life with coffee spoons; I know the voices dying with a dying fall Beneath the music from a farther room. So how should I presume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all— The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase, And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin, When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall, Then how should I begin To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways? And how should I presume?

And I have known the arms already, known them all— Arms that are braceleted and white and bare (But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!) Is it perfume from a dress That makes me so digress? Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl. And should I then presume? And how should I begin?

Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? …

I should have been a pair of ragged claws Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.

And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully! Smoothed by long fingers, Asleep … tired … or it malingers, Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me. Should I, after tea and cakes and ices, Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis? But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed, Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter, I am no prophet — and here’s no great matter; I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker, And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker, And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all, After the cups, the marmalade, the tea, Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me, Would it have been worth while, To have bitten off the matter with a smile, To have squeezed the universe into a ball To roll it towards some overwhelming question, To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead, Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”— If one, settling a pillow by her head Should say: “That is not what I meant at all; That is not it, at all.”

And would it have been worth it, after all, Would it have been worth while, After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets, After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor— And this, and so much more?— It is impossible to say just what I mean! But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen: Would it have been worth while If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl, And turning toward the window, should say: “That is not it at all, That is not what I meant, at all.”

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be; Am an attendant lord, one that will do To swell a progress, start a scene or two, Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool, Deferential, glad to be of use, Politic, cautious, and meticulous; Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse; At times, indeed, almost ridiculous— Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old … I grow old … I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach? I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach. I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves Combing the white hair of the waves blown back When the wind blows the water white and black. We have lingered in the chambers of the sea By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

Source: Ximalaya FM

[rhetoricandlogic]

Justin Cronin’s ‘The Ferryman’ carries readers from mystery to mayhem

The author of ‘The Passage’ has written another apocalyptic novel, this one about a utopia gone very wrong6

Review by Ron Charles

April 25, 2023 at 4:43 p.m. EDT

“This is the way the world ends,” T.S. Eliot predicted, “not with a bang but a whimper.”

Nope, says epic world-ender Justin Cronin.

In 2010, Cronin published “The Passage,” one of the most frightening apocalyptic novels of the modern age. If there was any whimpering in that bang-up job, it was the smothered chorus of millions of people being eaten by vampires.

Now, Cronin is looming over us again with another apocalyptic novel, this one more batty than vampiric. “The Ferryman” grabs bits of stardust from several sci-fi classics. The trippy effect is like watching “Inception” on an airplane while the passenger next to you watches “The Matrix” without earphones. Indeed, to get through this chaotic story, you’ll need the red pill and the blue pill and some Adderall.

The eerie first half — by far the better — is set on Prospera, an island paradise hidden from the rest of the world by an impenetrable electromagnetic barrier. “Prosperans,” as the glorious inhabitants are called, enjoy a civilization “free of all want and distraction.” They devote their attractive selves entirely to “creative expression and the pursuit of personal excellence.”

Like good Republicans, Prosperans imagine that everything about their system of static privilege is “entirely beneficent.” But members of the vast “support staff” harbor a somewhat different impression. Crammed onto a dreary adjacent island known as the Annex, these men and women of supposedly “lesser biological and social endowments” are expected to perform their various duties without complaint. And mostly, they do. If a few stress fractures are starting to zigzag across the surface of that social arrangement, the powers that be remain convinced they can keep control.

Control turns out to be the primary principle of this society, as it is in so many utopias. Beneath their shiny skins, Prosperans are biologically sterile but technically immortal. They maintain their vitality through a repeated process of bodily “reiteration.” They all arrive — or re-arrive — as polite 16-year-olds and begin living lives of “the highest aspirations,” which is how you can tell this is a fantasy.

Each one of them has something like a super-duper Apple Watch embedded in their forearm that constantly monitors physical and emotional health. When their natural faculties begin to fade — but before the deprivations and humiliations of age cut too deeply — they’re ferried to Nursery Isle, where they’re reiterated in some new identity, like a recycled Pepsi can. Most Prosperans willingly sail off to the Nursery, eager “to be reborn as a fresh-faced bright-eyed teenager in perfect health.” But sometimes, alas, a reluctant or confused old fogey must be persuaded. Think “Logan’s Run” with a touch of “Throw Momma From the Train.”

Although Cronin made his reputation by destroying the world, he’s actually better at building it, with all its attendant faults. Our narrator, Proctor Bennett, is one of the highly respected ferrymen who lead expiring Prosperans to the dock and launch them over to Nursery Isle for a refresh. The hypnotic horror of this exposition arises from how reasonable and gracious Proctor sounds, how much pride he takes in ritualized euthanasia. “We were,” he tells us, “the shepherds of emotional order in one of life’s most challenging moments.”

But the placid tone of Proctor’s life is shattered early in the novel. Soon after he explains to us the exquisite order of life on Prospera, he receives an unusual assignment: He’s to escort his own 126-year-old father to the ferry for reiteration. “You’ll make new memories,” Proctor tells his old man, falling back on the usual script. “Think how wonderful it’s going to feel to be young again, your whole life ahead of you.”

His father seems resigned to the process, to his duty, and everything is going fine until suddenly it isn’t. In a flash of resistance, the old man must be violently restrained. His dignity evaporates. It’s a scandal. Witnesses are unnerved, disgusted by the public violation of such a foundational taboo.

But Proctor is even more deeply shaken by this experience. Nightmares — typically not possible for Prosperans — continually trouble his sleep. Worse still, Proctor feels that something about his surroundings has gone fundamentally askew. Friends are sympathetic. Colleagues are concerned. High-ranking officials are alarmed about what Proctor’s father might have told him in those frantic moments before he was ferried off to the Nursery. And rebel agents from the Annex believe they may have found in Proctor someone to help their cause.

All the elements are here for a spectacular sci-fi thriller full of piercing implications for our own class-bound society, with its paralyzing fear of aging. But Cronin has something far more ambitious and metaphysical in mind, which throws “The Ferryman” off its tracks.

Just as the class-warfare plot starts to rumble, the ground shifts wildly beneath Proctor’s feet — and ours. “Then I was falling,” he says. “Falling and falling and falling. Down and down and down,” carrying my hopes for this long novel along with him. The creepy utopia Proctor depended on vanishes, and he finds himself in a hallucinatory realm of baffling experiences.

This is clearly meant to be a stunning development, ripe with provocative reflections on the nature of consciousness and the creative power of perception. But unfortunately, those deeper issues dissolve in a vat of melodrama: chases, shootouts and fires along with clones, billionaires and maniacal villains spouting cartoonish dialogue. And all of this is somehow glommed on to the lachrymose story of a grieving parent and a dying world. If nothing else, Cronin has out-cuckooed Anthony Doerr’s “Cloud Cuckoo Land.”

“The Ferryman” wants to explore what’s real and what’s illusion, and I’m as eager as the next Platonist to be enlightened by the true nature of reality, but this late in the philosophical game, authors have got to bring something special to the cave wall. Unfortunately, Cronin’s topsy-turvy thriller is torn apart by the unsustainable imbalance between its profound intentions and its ultimately silly execution.